


Jump

by TheNarator



Series: Homestuck Rarepairs [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Jealousy, Multi, Rough Sex, Topping from the Bottom, lime blood, limeblood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarator/pseuds/TheNarator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly your puzzle sponge does its job and slides several pieces of information into place so that they fit perfectly together, and now it’s your turn to laugh.</p><p>“Oh Darling Sister,” you echo, grinning as her sneer deepens, “are you jealous  of that mutant? Is that what you came for? My pity?”</p><p>Suddenly she’s right next to you, grabbing a fistfull of your hair and yanking your head back to look up at her as she towers over you. “I don’t need your pity,” she spits the word like it’s a curse, “and I think you know that pity is never what I’ve wanted from you.”</p><p>She straightens, pulling you painfully to your feet by your hair. She pulls your auditory orifice close to her lips, so you can hear her whisper.</p><p>“The only thing I’ve ever wanted from you, is hatred.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you refuse to die here.

It’s amazing just how many of them there are. The spectator area had been full before, but it  _still_  seems full even as a sea of trolls spill out of it. It’s like they’re materializing out of the air, like they’re multiplying even as you watch. The chest-high wall that had seemed so impenetrable before, such a stable barrier between you and your adoring audience, was now being crawled over by the irate mob, like swarm-bugs across a nutrition-block counter. A mass of warm bodies, so much warmer than your own, presses in on you from all sides, and you gag on the heavy scent of rust and mud and thick saccharine honey, all smeared like stains over the endless expanse of concrete grey that has for so many sweeps scraped your tongue raw and sensitive enough to see beneath it.

You choke and flail upward, trying to get away, but that’s exactly the direction you’re being pushed and your feet lose contact with the ground. Their hands are on your arms, on your legs, claws tearing at your pristine legislacerator uniform. They press you up, up, toward the splash of pure, clean vanilla above you, the hangman’s knot you had been so proud of only moments ago.

You scream.

You hadn’t thought you would scream. Somewhere in the back of your think-pan you were afraid something like this would happen. She’d shared this particular passage of her ancestor’s journal with you, when her ancestor had murdered yours in order to save her own sorry, cerulean-tinted criminal skin. You didn’t think you would end up like your ancestor, you’d always thought that it would be easy enough to jump above the level of the crowd, use their heads as stepping stones as you pursued your quarry. It isn’t like that though, you didn’t jump, didn’t anticipate needing to because you didn’t expect her to actually do it. You thought she would escape some other way, or call them off once she was free. Now she’s gone, nowhere in the field of your senses and with her scent trail swiftly going cold, and you’re still being mobbed by cheering, screaming lowbloods who are about to hang you with your own noose.

No! No, it can’t happen this way! You kick out with both legs, screeching in frustration when none of the twenty pairs of hands holding you loosens their grip in the slightest. You thrash your head wildly side to side and feel warm blood fleck your face as you catch someone with one of your horns, but then you neck nearly snaps when someone’s fingers grab your hair from behind and pull, holding your head still as some tall rustblood reaches for the rope. You blink back the teal-tinted tears as they begin to sting your useless eyes because  _no no no you refuse to die here because of her cheap trick!_

The shoosh, when it comes, is quiet. You wouldn’t think it would be possible to hear something so quiet over the roar of the excited mob, but it cuts through the din on some strange wavelength that penetrates every highblood-psychic-addled puzzle-sponge in the cavernous courtroom. The sound of cheering fades away to a dim drone as your head fills with cotton, and the hands holding you up grow limp. It’s like sinking into sopor, only faster and much more surreal as you feel yourself falling but can’t really bring yourself to be bothered by it. You’re a highblood, so naturally his powers have far more of an effect on you, but you do manage to register the confused calm of the surrounding lowbloods before you fall headlong into sleep.

He didn’t even need to pap anyone.

\--

“THAT WAS ABOUT THE STUPIDEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN YOU ATTEMPT PYROPE!”

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are wondering if maybe you should have died while you had the chance.

You are in your apartment. It is a scant four blocks from the courthouse, the place where you almost died, but you can’t afford to start thinking of it that way and hence force yourself to consider the practicality of such accommodations, which no doubt enabled your friend to carry you home without attracting much attention.

Well, friends. Plural.

You are seated in your nutrition block, with your elbows on the counter and a plate of sugared beetles in front of you. You’re not really hungry for them, but your think-pan is a still a bit fuzzy and every time your nubby-horned friend pauses in his tirade to glare at you he glares especially hard if he doesn’t see you eating.

Your friend’s name is Karkat Vantas, and his powers are just as amazing as you thought they’d be.

“Calm down Karkles,” you interrupt him, grinning your usual slightly-manic grin. “I was never in any danger and you know it. I knew you’d never let me die!”

This is a lie. You don’t really have the energy to feel ashamed of it. Maybe you really do need to eat something.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I WAS THERE!” he points out, rather reasonably.

“As though you’d miss my first trial as a Neophyte Legislacerator!” you cackle. You hadn’t actually considered whether or not he’d be there. Considering who you were supposed to be executing you hadn’t really considered it your first real trial, not when you were sure no one would actually die in it. You hadn’t even thought to invite anyone.

Karkat lets out a growling, agitated sigh and stalks to the other side of the nutrition block, where he collapses into the lap of his moirail.

Karkat’s moirail is Gamzee Makara, and he looks pretty high right now.

This probably has more to do with the way Karkat is licking distractedly at his neck than anything remotely soporific he might have ingested. You are feeling first hand the effects of Karkat’s not inconsiderable blood-caste ability, and as quickly as it knocked you out you know that transmission through bodily fluids is even faster and more potent.

You sort of want to kiss him to try it for yourself, but your head is still a bit empty and echo-y from his amplified shoosh, and you don’t think it’s a good idea if you want to remain conscious.

Admittedly you and Consciousness aren’t such good friends at the moment, given the way Karkat’s angry voice is bouncing around your empty, echo-y head with enough force to make a dull ache set in, but you know Karkat’s probably had enough of trolls just sort of tasting his mouth like it’s a new brand of Fago.

Technically Karkat is not allowed to be alive. The Condescension outlawed the hatching, breathing, eating, reproducing and otherwise general existence of any and all limebloods, which is the caste from which Karkat’s abilities hail. However, Karkat’s blood is not actually the correct color corresponding to his abilities, and while that makes him technically a mutant, he is too novel an occurrence for many highbloods to let go without a fight. Especially the very old ones who remember nights spent with limeblooded slaves so many sweeps ago, when the cast was as common as they were valued for their soporific kisses.

Given that Karkat is a talented and respected young subjuggulator’s lawful and registered moirail, he is not technically a slave, but without Gamzee that would almost certainly change. Even with Gamzee by his side some allowance have to be made; Highbloods won’t stick their neck’s out to protect something they can’t enjoy, and you know Karkat has had to surrender many casual kisses for the sake of his continued survival.

 Karkat turns away from the section of Gamzee’s neck he’d been mouthing and glances back at you. Hurriedly you pick up a beetle and shove it into your mouth, but he’s no longer giving off hot waves of pulsating rage. He’s shrunk, somehow, going still and quiet in Gamzee’s embrace. He seems … small.

You suddenly decide you don’t like that at all, and show him all your teeth as you delicately pull the sugar-crusted wings off the next beetle and pop them into your mouth. You hear him scoff, then smell the potent pheromones in his saliva as he gives Gamzee’s neck another distracting lick. You feel all soft and floaty again, so you have another beetle.

“Just, try not to do anything else terminally stupid, okay?” Karkat asks, with much less volume that is normal for him. “Gamzee and me, we’ve got some stuff to do out of town. Most of the parties,” the disgusted face he makes practically leaves the taste of auditory orafice wax on your tongue, “we’ve been going to have been close, but some seadwellers have gotten, uh,  _interested,_  in me. We’re gonna be spending some more time by the coast. I don’t know when we’ll be back in the city.”

“Is Eridan chomping at the bit to show you off?” you cackle, watching as vibrant cherry comes to the surface beneath the skin of his cheeks.

“THAT’S NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS!” he shouts, sounding more like himself, “AND EVEN IF FISHDICK WANTED TO ‘SHOW ME OFF,’ AS YOU SO PRESUMPTUOUSLY PUT IT, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I’D DO ANYTHING REQUIRING MORE EFFORT THAN EXTENDING MY MIDDLE FINGER IN A PROUD DISPLAY OF ‘FUCK YOU’ FOR THE SAKE OF THAT OVERSEXED NOOK LICKER?”

“Aw, did you two have a falling out?” you simper playfully, reveling in the sweet scent of his blush. “I thought his flushcrush was getting to be just painfully obvious, but then again I guess having a steady matesprit would make the ‘public-property’ status of all your bodily fluids a bit more complicated.”

You expect him to sputter indignantly for a while before bestowing you with another shower of creative curses, but instead his scent grows fainter as he goes small again, curling up against Gamzee’s side.

“Actually,” he starts, then looks away. He keeps glancing at you, giving you brief flashes of his sweet cherry eyes before turning away from you again.

“I received a message from Her Imperious Condescension.”

You pause. Your nose floods you with the taste of his blush before he turns away again, and it makes your insides curl.

“So, was her Purpleness as deep in the crimson throes for you as our favorite stutter-fish? Or do the rest of us lowwly landdwwellers get to keep you a bit longer?”

“She wants to reestablish my blood caste,” he whispers.

You are not sure what to say to that.

“She thinks that if she can keep the population limited, that ‘cherry blood’ might make a nice addition to the hemospectrum. She wants me to find a matesprit and a kismesis as soon as possible. She said she’d given me a chance to properly fill the quandrants before she started taking … requests, for me.”

You swallow. Hard.

“I … guess that little display at the courthouse should serve as pretty decent advertising. You should be beating them off with your scythe by this time tomorrow.”

“I’d really like to have something to tell them,” he says, so softly that you almost don’t hear it.

Abruptly you push your chair back from the counter, and your blood pusher jumps when he starts. You do not want to deal with this. You have lost one friend today.

“Maybe you should go,” you suggest, standing up and making a show of stretching and yawning. “I need some sleep, and I’ll have to be hot on the trail in pursuit of justice tomorrow night.”

After the door of your hive closes behind Karkat and Gamzee you lean against it. You want to hit someone, but the only person available is yourself. You punch the side of your hive’s thermal hull until your knuckles bleed for compromise, then strip down to your underwear and crawl into your recooperacoon.

\--

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are not in your recooperacoon.

It’s the lack of sopor that wakes you. First you become dimly aware that no soothing slime is pressing into every orifice, and then that your orientation isn’t correct; you sleep curled up with your head pillowed on one arm, but you are sitting upright with both hands behind you. Then you realize that both hands are behind you because they are tied together.

The last thing you become aware of, when you snap fully awake with a snarl and start struggling wildly against the sailor’s knot binding your wrists, is that you are not alone.

The troll sitting backwards in a chair on the other side of your respite block is Vriska Serket, and you cannot smell her teeth.

She isn’t smiling. She isn’t grinning. She isn’t even smirking, about to break into maniacal cackling. Her mouth is closed, her lips a thin berry-blue line. The shades are drawn, it must be the middle of the day, but the lights are off and the room is so dark that she must barely be able to see. She hasn’t changed out of the clothes she was (almost) tried in.

The chair she is currently sitting the wrong way around in was the one that Karkat and Gamzee had been using in your nutrition block.

You don’t know why you noticed that.

“Welcome back to the land of the living Redglare,” she says sweetly once your snarling fades to a soft warning growl. There’s none of the mocking sing-song quality you are used to, just a forced simper full of malice, like a mouthful of honey spat onto pile of pest-rodent poison.

“What are you doing here?” you demand. It strikes you as wrong that a grimace shows fewer of your fangs than a smile. “Come to finish the job, eh Captain?”

She laughs. You think this is the first time you’ve ever heard her laugh when you doubt that there’s at least something she finds funny. You didn’t think there was anything more chilling than hearing her laugh in the face of your accusations of her broken promises, like your faith in her was no more than entertaining foolishness, but this complete lack of any amusement is somehow even more terrifying.

That laugh shouldn’t be resonating in your nook like the echo in a flapping blood beast cave, but it is.

“Oh Sis,” she whines, petulant and unconvincing, “you really think so little of me? Of our bond? That I’d let a bunch of lousy lowbloods finish you off?” Now you smell her teeth, but her smile is tight and vicious. “I’m starting to think you don’t value our friendship anymore.”

“I am well aware of the  _exact_   value of your friendship,” you snarl, and she rises from her chair, your chair, and stalks toward you.

Her curling lip does away with her smile. “Is that why you’re leaning on a mutant now, Sister Darling?”

Suddenly your puzzle sponge does its job and slides several pieces of information into place so that they fit perfectly together, and now it’s your turn to laugh.

“Oh Darling Sister,” you echo, grinning as her sneer deepens, “are you  _jealous_ of that mutant? Is that what you came for? My  _pity?”_

Suddenly she’s right next to you, grabbing a fistfull of your hair and yanking your head back to look up at her as she towers over you. “I don’t need your _pity,”_  she spits the word like it’s a curse, “and I think you know that pity is never what I’ve wanted from you.”

She straightens, pulling you painfully to your feet by your hair. She pulls your auditory orifice close to her lips, so you can hear her whisper.

“The only thing I’ve ever wanted from you, is  _hatred.”_

You lose a few too many hair for comfort as you wrench out of her grasp, drop and sweep your leg at her ankles, knocking her feet out from under her so she lands hard on her ass with her legs spread like she’s offering herself to you.

Which, actually, she is.

You intend to take her up on it.

You can’t to anything with tied hands though. Before she can get back on her feet you are already sprinting from your respite block, slamming painfully into the doorway in your haste but managing to stumble into the hallway before you hear footfalls behind you. She’s hidden your cane somewhere, and you didn’t pick up the sharp metallic scent of her sword, so your best bet is a sustenance preparation blade from the nutrition block.

Which, actually, is perfect.

There’s a rack of knives secured to the far wall, and you back up to it as fast as you can. You hear her in the hallway even as you press the rope to the blade and start furiously sawing away by shifting your bound hands up and down, but you’ve only just broken through the first loop in the complicated sailor’s knot when she’s got you by the hair again. You can feel the last effects of the sopor giving way to burning, tantalizing pain as she jerks you away from the knife rack and slams your back against the wall. She kisses you, fast and hard and all teeth, biting at your lips, and only when you can taste your own teal blood does she start to lick at your mouth. You give as good as you get, catching her oral appendage between your teeth and nibbling until you taste delicious berry blue. The taste of the colors runs together with the sting of the wounds and makes your mouth water.

You didn’t manage to cut yourself entirely free, but you loosened the knot and by twisting your wrists and tugging you manage to make the rest of the rope fall away. She has so much more hair to grab and you take advantage of it, jerking her head back to go for her neck, gnawing at her throat as she trills a high note somewhere between pleasure and panic, leaving imprints of your teeth all up and down it but never digging in too deep, never biting so hard as to puncture her wind tube or tear at a vein. Rough, vicious, demanding, but oh so careful.

Just as she’s always been so careful with you.

You don’t so much push her coat off her and shred the sections of fabric holding it up with your claws, letting the tattered remnants fall away. You’re a little farther along than she is in the getting undressed department, so presumably for this reason she doesn’t go for your rumble-sphere holster and instead releases your hair to take off her own shirt. As she pulls it over her head you seize the fabric and twist it, binding her arms loosely by her horns. It doesn’t hold of course, and when she yanks it off her lips are curled at your wigglerish antics, but by that time you’ve darted around her and hopped onto the nutrition block meal platform, spreading your legs invitingly before reaching behind you to grab one of the few beetles you left out when you got distracted practically throwing Karkat out of your hive.

Swallowing that thought you pop the beetle into your mouth and taste the way her lips pull back in an angry snarl with growing satisfaction. She could have used your desk chair, but she got a chair from this block for a reason.

“Jealous?” you simper.

She scoffs, not in the least convincing. “Of the beetle?”

“Of the mutant,” you clarify gleefully. “The one who was here while you were running away from your mistakes, carrying me back to the hive like a lusus with it’s grub, feeding me sugared beetles with his sweet cherry lime-aid fingers that you’ll never get to-“

You get cut off by her shoving her way between your legs and pressing her mouth back against your with an angry snarl.

“Last I checked girls like you didn’t hesitate to kill blackrom attachments over jealousy of redrom ones,” you taunt as soon as she releases your mouth to suck in a hissing breath through her teeth.

“Girls like me?” she demands, tugging you off the counter so you stand to face her again. She’s a bit taller than you, so you’re left glaring up at her while she cranes her neck to hiss against your lips. “What do you know about ‘girls like me,’ Madame Legislacerator?”

“I know that you’re wicked by nature,” you begin. You smash the plate over her head, sending a few beetles scattering to the floor, and duck out from between her arms. While she’s getting her bearings you yank open a cabinet, feeling around inside for the equipment you keep stashed strategically around your hive, and grin when you realize she hadn’t even thought to look for them. Just as your fingers close around your prize her heel meets the back of your knee, throwing you to the floor.

“I know that they only thing you can really get off on is hurting people,” you continue, smelling hot waves of rage radiate from her cold skin. With a frustrated screech she pounces on you like she’s determined to prove your point, gouging your hip as she tears at your boxers and making you arch into the sweet sting of her claws. You reach down to struggle with her pants, pushing them and her underwear as low on her hips as you can reach, her hand brushing hers.

“And I know that it’s a mistake to trust you,” you whisper against her mouth, and the click of the handcuffs makes her stop, staring down at you like she can’t believe it. You bring your hand up to show her, where her wrist is cuffed to your own.

“Whatever the circumstances.”

She lets out another frustrated howl, then leans down to bite your neck hard enough to draw blood.

The noise you make when the pain hits is not at all dignified, but you can fucking  _feel_   her teeth inside you, feel her tongue lapping at your blood, and knowing that it must taste awful to her, like metal and rust instead of berries and beetles, makes every stroke of her tongue feel more deliberate. She pins your cuffed wrist to the floor and your other hand scrabbles futilely at her back, but she doesn’t let up any longer than necessary to bit down again a mere breath to one side, driving the point of her tongue into the wound vacated by one of her fangs. You rake your claws down her back until you reach her ass and start kneading it none too gently, but it only makes her rock down into you, pressing her squirming bulge against the front of your underwear. Reaching down as far as you can go, you only manage to touch the opening of her nook with the tip of one claw. She thrusts back against it, but the movement only dislodges your hand.

She releases your neck to move up to your auditory shell. “Take them off,” she growls, jangling the chain connecting your wrists to indicate the handcuffs.

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I just released people every time they didn’t even bother to ask politely,” you mock her, and earn a harsh bite to your lips that makes your whole face tingle.

“I can’t exactly fuck you blinder than you already are like this,” she hisses.

You lunge upward and catch her auditory shell between your teeth, biting hard enough to draw more of her blueberry blood. You’re really starting to like the taste of her.

“I don’t cater to criminals,” you laugh.

“Fuck you sideways with a chainsaw, Pyrope!” she snarls, then sits up as much as she can, putting her full weight on your trapped bulge and  _fuck_  that hurts. “Your lusus was an unhatched dragon. You have no idea what it was like to have to feed her to stay alive!”

Genetic material drips from her nook onto the front of your underwear, and she’s only a shade cooler than you but the sensation still sends a shiver through your whole body, making your muscles spasm and your skin crawl. Gog do you just want to be inside her already, but her words sting almost as much as her claws and Neophyte Legislacerator Terezi Pyrope does not lose arguments for the sake of her bulge.

“There were more than enough wicked FLARPers to keep you lusus fed while staying inside the rules,” you retort angrily as her ass grinds down onto you and you thrust just as viciously back up into her, rubbing your warmer bulge tantalizingly against her dripping nook.

“The rules that we agreed on, together!”

She glares down at your, panting.

“Well, you know girls like me. We only want rules so we can break them.”

Her unbound hand wraps around your neck, and even as you grab her wrist she’s already shuffling backwards awkwardly, pulling you up as she goes until you both are more or less sitting up facing each other. Your back is to one of the cabinets, and still holding you by the neck she slams your head into it with as much strength as you guess she can muster. The metal cabinet catches one of your horns wrong and you see stars. Your sense of orientation in space goes a bit janky for a minute and it feels like you are floating upside-down somewhere near the ceiling, even though you can feel ground beneath you and her claws ripping at your underwear until the two of your are both sitting topless in your rumble sphere holders on the nutrition block floor, her with her pants around her knees and you in nothing else whatsoever. She’s kneeling and you’re sitting on your ass with your legs splayed out.

The room is almost right ways up when she shoves three fingers roughly into your nook, and you bang your head on the cabinet again when you throw it back in a howl.

Your legs start kicking uselessly as you thrash, riding her hand, dripping teal slurry onto the floor and letting out a string of high pitch whines. She could easily by tearing you up with her claws but she seems more interesting torturing you with pleasure, driving them in as deep as they’ll go and delicately twisting them, reveling in the helpless sounds you’re making. She leans in, pressing your bodies closer together, and immediately your bulges intertwine, making you both keen. Stimulation on your bulge and nook at the same time makes you sob, makes you twist to press your forehead to a different point on the cabinet door, desperate for the cool metal on your feverish skin.

There’s a part of you that just wants to keep going like this forever, wants to melt and just beg her not to stop, not to ever stop. But this isn’t flush, not even close, with the claw marks she left on your skin still smarting and the bite on your neck still dripping nearly as steady as your nook. You refuse to just  _let_  her, to lay here and be  _taken,_  so you do the only thing your jarred think-pan can think of.

You lurch up, grabbing the edge of the table behind her with your free hand, and pull yourself up until your rumble spheres are level with her face. The movement draws her fingers out of your nook and rather painfully dis-entwines your bulges, but it puts your nook about level with the limit of how far upwards her bulge can reach. When you feel it teasing at the lips of your nook you release your grip on the table and drop.

“Oh fuck!” she shrieks as you sheath her bulge inside you in one fluid motion. You struggle to hold yourself still for a moment, gasping and panting at the feeling of being stuffed, taking all of her all at once, but you didn’t get where you are tonight by slacking off, so you only give yourself a moment before you lace the fingers of your bound hands together and start to rock against her.

Her other hand snakes around to claw at your back as you set a slow, steady rhythm. Your bulge continues to thrash against your abdomen, but it’s nothing to the throb of her bulge and your nook that signals her genetic material pulsing into your body. The two of you are only a shade apart and she’s fever hot with arousal, but you can still feel the slight chill pooling in your genetic bladder. 

Vriska has started to babble incoherently.

“Yes, gog, yes,” she whines, her claws shredding your back in a sharp reminder not to let yourself get too languid, “fuck, oh gog yes, Terezi,  _fuck!”_

“I though,  _ah,_  that we were using titles here, ah, fuck,  _Captain?”_  you mock her, laughing when her angry growl dissolves into a needy trill.

“Fuck, oh shit, oh, fuck  _you!”_  she manages.

“Sideways with a chainsaw, ye-yeah I heard.”

She screams in frustration and starts pulling on your hair again, demanding that you go “faster” and “harder” and “oh fuck Terezi just more!” It sends a powerful thrill through you to have reduced her to this, to broken begging, and it makes you all the more determined to pull off what you’re about to do next.

You clench your nook as hard as you can and she wails, tugging sharply on your hair. Then she releases it, raking her claws down your back and then across your stomach. Before she can wrap her hand around your bulge though, you grab her wrist and pull it up over her head, pressing it into the edge of the table, trapping her there.

“Just, oh fuck, just come already,” she pants, glaring at you from behind lust-glazed eyes.

You grin evilly at her. “You first.”

“Fuck you,” she snarls breathlessly, “there’s no way I’m going to, ah,  _ah,_  come first!”

“I think you will,” you simper with as much control as you can dredge up, and are rewarded with a helpless little whimper.

“I think you’re going to come inside me,” you croon, watching her face contort with a mixture of hopeless arousal and impotent rage. “I think you’re going to come without me even touching your nook.”

She thrashes, wrist twisting in your grip, and you nuzzle her neck in a parody of matesprit fondness you know will drive her wild.

“And I think you’re going to come  _exactly_   when I tell you to.”

“Fat, ah, chance!” she spits, but she’s so close that she’s shaking and her bulge is thrashing wildly inside you, and you know she won’t be able to hold it back.

You press your nose into her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of blueberries.

“Now,” you whisper, and sink your sharp teeth into her flesh.

She comes with a wailing sob, pumping the last of her slurry into your genetic bladder until a little thrill of fear shoots through you that it will actually burst. It doesn’t though, and as she goes limp in your grip and her bulge starts to slide out of your nook you let out a breathless little trill as you feel your body start to combine your genetic material with hers. It feels strange and good and it makes you dimly aware that you’ll need a pail soon and you have no idea how you’re going to make that happen, but before you get to that stage you need to come.

You feel loose and empty when her bulge slide all the way out of you, and the loss of stimulation on your nook makes you whine. Vriska’s eyelids are fluttering in a way that probably means she’s only dimly aware of what’s happening at this point, and you take advantage of it to lay her none too gently on her side, peel her pants and underwear the rest of the way off,  and use your joined hands to hike up one of her legs to expose her nook.

“Oh fuck,” she breathes when you work your way inside her, like she doesn’t have the energy for anything else. Her cuffed hand hangs limply at the end of the chain, weighing painfully on your wrist as you hold her open, but she doesn’t have the strength left in her to do anything besides keen as you fill her up.

She’s beautiful like this, you decide, fuck-drunk and shuddering with over-stimulation while you stuff her dripping nook full of your writhing bulge.

She’s not the only one that’s about to succumb to weariness though, you’ve both had a long day and an even longer night and your muscles are already starting to protest the continued exercise. Your orgasm isn’t as violent as hers, it sweeps over you in pleasant, shuddering waves, and beneath the sound of your own contented trilling you can almost hear her sigh as you pump your slurry inside her and her body starts to do it's work.

With your bulge safely tucked back behind its bony sheath you collapse on your nutrition block floor, on your side facing Vriska. She’s still conscious, although you don’t know how. You’re not really sure how you’re conscious at this point. Your whole body aches in the best possible way, and your genetic bladder is so full it’s sending dull waves of tingling pleasure all through you.

“If you truly don’t trust me then why didn’t you jump?”

It takes you a moment, several moments actually, to work out what she’s on about. Then you’re brought down from your post-sex haze with an unpleasant bump when you realize you can smell the cerulean in her eyes and not just the bleeding wound in her neck. For the first time in a long time you actually mourn the loss of your sight, because you're sure that you're missing something of her expression, even from this close.

You wet your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. “I said it was a mistake to trust you,” your rasp, your voice coming out thick and croaky, “I didn’t say that I was perfect. You fooled me, Captain Serket.”

“I knew Karkat was there,” she whispers. “I didn’t … I wouldn’t have …”

She’s stuttering. She’s stuttering and you hate the sound, never want to hear it again as long as you live, so you kiss her, long and slow and sweet. Then you bite her, because you can, and she gives a villainous laugh against your mouth, and you feel warm and pleasantly furious inside.

“I fucking loathe you Redglare,” she croons with a manic grin.

You show her all your teeth. “The feeling’s mutual Mindfang.”

**Author's Note:**

> The best part about writing xeno is that even if you’ve never had sex in the precise combination of genders/sexes/orientations that you’re writing about, no one can tell because there is no reliable source of information on alien sex.


End file.
